


Spring

by emmiemac



Series: The Cleganes in Winterfell [8]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-10
Updated: 2014-03-14
Packaged: 2018-01-15 06:32:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1294981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmiemac/pseuds/emmiemac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa wants more children; Sandor won’t let her risk her life. As Spring approaches, Sansa and Sandor must weigh the promises they have made to each other as well their own fears and come to a decision about their marriage.</p><p>DISCLAIMER: This story is entirely based on characters from George R.R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Spring was returning to the North. The trees had not grown new leaves or even buds, nor did any of the wild flowers of the wolfswood or the gardens in Winterfell yet bloom. But the air was less frigid and did not bite at exposed skin or cause icicles to form on men’s beards or horses’ manes and tails, and some days the sun shone from behind grey clouds for a few hours, and when it did, there could be heard a steady drip-drip of melting snow and ice from the walls, turrets and ramshackle outbuildings of Winterfell. The yard sometimes showed more mud underfoot than snow, and soldiers and craftsmen scraped their boots instead of simply stamping their feet free of snow before entering the halls and castle.

Though no sun shone that morning, the air was mild enough so that Sansa could pause before the open shutters of her chamber and rest her hands on the windowsill without shivering violently and racing back before the hearth to warm herself. She breathed deeply, feeling the fresh air fill her body and hope fill her heart.

_Winter has almost ended…and we have survived._

Sansa was not foolish, and had not been for some years: her girlish innocence had been very suddenly and violently taken from her in the game of thrones, a game she had never sought to play and yet into which she had been drawn as a pawn. Because of her terrible experiences, she knew would always be hardship in store for her family, Winterfell and the North. _Winter is coming_ were the Stark family words; and the winter had been long and hard and the devastating wars that had preceded it had not abated while snow and ice and bitter cold and the accompanying rationing and even starvation had fallen on them.

But they had triumphed over their enemies, human and not, and the rightful queen Daenerys Stormborn, who had helped lead the Northmen to victory against the Boltons and the Freys and then the Others with her dragons, now sat the Iron Throne in King’s Landing. The young dragon queen had wasted no time in conquering and then rebuilding the Seven Kingdoms, and Sansa had never regretted bending the knee to the Targaryan claimant, though she had balked at the cost of sending her sister Arya south with the queen’s court as guarantee of the Stark family loyalty. But Daenerys, mayhaps due to Arya’s presence, had never failed them nor forgotten them, and what supplies and rations could be spared for the North’s survival had been forthcoming. Still, many had suffered and many had died.

_Under my rule as warden of the North,_ Sansa reminded herself, though she never forgot.

She sighed, remembering her duty when only moments ago she had almost felt unburdened, even carefree. She meant to close the shutters again but turned back as she heard the distant sounds of hammers and chisels echoing off the stone walls, and the clash and clanging of swords as the garrison trained in the yard under the command of her lord husband. She smiled again. They may have not been able to conquer winter, but winter was finally abating as well.

To her startled surprise, a small bird landed before her on the windowsill, and just as quickly flew off again in the direction of the godswood at the sound of her delighted gasp. Suddenly she was aware of the sound of their flutter and birdsong from deep within the still-bare trees of the refuge of the old gods.

“Little bird,” she murmured dreamily before closing the shutters. A sharp knock sounded at her chamber door.

“Come in, Osha,” she called, knowing the wildling woman’s knock from any other in Winterfell. Osha was a tall and stringy woman with harsh features weathered by the far north beyond the Wall and its hardships; but she was selflessly devoted to Sansa’s younger brother Rickon whom she had hidden and cared for when they were forced to flee Winterfell after the Ironborn had invaded the North. She had remained with them when the Stark children had returned to claim their father’s castle and their family’s legacy in the North, and had been of invaluable assistance in helping survive the winter and in having other stray wildlings work and defend the castle and fight for the North. Where Sansa was loved and respected in Winterfell, Osha was quietly feared. Though she was brusque and unrefined, she had a loyalty that Sansa returned unreservedly, knowing she could trust the woman with their lives.

The wildling woman entered the chamber holding Sansa’s youngest child, her son Robb; named for her eldest brother who was once King in the North...until he was murdered.

“Th’nurse said he needs feedin’, m’lady; an’ she’ad  ‘er hands full’o th’other two,” Osha told her.

“Thank you, Osha, I fear I have taken too much time for myself this morning,” Sansa told her apologetically. She reached for her baby boy, now nearly a year old. She would still nurse in the morning and at night to help put him to sleep but she had needed to wean him early as she had her first two children. The Lady of Winterfell and the Warden of the North had precious little time for nursing. Sansa prayed that her children would still grow strong. Already they had been subject to colds, fevers and rashes, more than she could remember herself or any of her siblings having had as children but, alas, there was no one from her early life at Winterfell to confirm her fears.

_Oh, Mother, how I have longed for you these years._ Sansa no longer let herself dwell on the deaths of her parents which meant they would never see their grandchildren, but she wished for guidance in raising own her children, such as her mother had with Old Nan and later Septa Mordane. Sansa had a nurse sent to her by the Flints of the mountain clans, as well as the wildling women in the castle and occasionally Maege Mormont of Bear Island, affectionately, and respectfully, known as the She-Bear, and she was grateful but it was not the same as having her own mother.

“A woman’s needin’ time t’herself, m’lady, though most’o us never gets none; take it wheres ye can, I says, m’lady,” Osha said in her flat voice.

Sansa smiled to, tempted again to tell the wildling woman how grateful she was for staying with them and refraining, knowing she would get the same stony acknowledgement her gratitude always got from the wildling. Instead she simple agreed with her.

“I believe you are right, Osha. And I do hope you find some time for yourself as well.”

“Wha’ would I do wit’time t’meself, m’lady? Embroider cushions an’all?”

Sansa coloured in embarrassment, though she knew the comment was not a slight to her. The wildling neither read nor wrote nor practiced needlework beyond rudimentary mending. She had been a spearwife, and could fight fiercely and hunt and trap game and cook over fires and bind wounds and… well, they were called spear _wives._

Sansa coloured again at her thoughts: Osha now shared her chambers with an older man from the mountain clans who had lost a foot, from fighting or frostbite the man had never said; but when he showed up at Winterfell offering to work hard for his keep, he had been taken in and had been true to his word. He had a good hand with animals and, hobbling around on his crutches, had tended their meagre livestock as best he could with the rationed fodder and in the killing cold and they had survived. In time, their numbers had even increased. The beasts were still scrawny but Sansa hoped they would improve once there was grass for grazing and that they would breed heartily under his care. Meanwhile the man had asked Osha to marry him before the heart tree in the godswood, in the manner of the old gods, and Sansa suspected that Osha was beginning to warm to the idea.

Traditionally wildling women were carried off by strong, fierce men who would fight for them; but abductions were not permitted under Sansa’s rule as warden and the loss of so many Northern men in battles had meant that younger and prettier girls of the commons were willing to marry wildling men, a choice made acceptable by the Lady Alys of House Karstark’s marriage to the Magnar of Thenn and her ladies’ marriages with his own fighting men. Some of these newly wed couples had settled in the lands around Karhold; others in the Gift, and Sansa hoped that more would be willing to settle in villages and on crofts throughout the North. The land needed to be repopulated, crops needed to be raised and harvested, and castles and villages needed craftsmen and trade. Provided that they should be willing to live by the laws, the wildlings would be most welcome. So Sansa guessed that even a hobbling older man was welcome to Osha now as well: she was not like to find better, and did not seem inclined to leave the castle.

“I suppose I only meant that I hope you are happy in Winterfell, Osha,” Sansa reassured her.

“Iffen I wasn’t I’d be somewheres else, wouldn’I, m’lady?” Osha replied reasonably.

Sansa smiled. “Yes, Osha, you would very well be,” she affirmed. Then she winced slightly. “Done already, my sweet boy?” she spoke to her son.

She shifted him to her other arm and pulled the neck and sleeve of her wool dress back over her shoulder so that Osha could re-tie her laces. Then she sat him in her lap to look at him. “My sweet, sweet Robb,” she crooned and her son smiled and reached out to her so that Sansa held him tightly to her, rocking him in her embrace. Her third child and second son did resemble his namesake, her eldest brother, or so she was convinced. He had her auburn hair and deep Tully-blue eyes, as did her elder son, named for her father Eddard and called Ned as he had been; but Ned’s hair was much darker and he already showed signs that he had inherited his father’s heavy brow and hooked nose, whereas Robb had brighter hair and the more regular features that her brother had once had. And he seemed to love her, Sansa thought: he always smiled to see her and rested easily in her arms and clung to her affectionately. Birthing him had very nearly cost her life and she had promised him when she had first held him that she would never blame him or fail to love him, for it had not been his fault. She had wanted him, as she had wanted all her children, and would never grudge him how he had come into the world.

She had made Sandor promise him as well, she remembered solemnly now: had made him promise on what then could possibly have been her deathbed to never resent or to blame their child.

_Promise me, Sandor…and promise him…that you shall always love him, no matter what…no matter what should happen. Please, my love, do not blame him if I-_

He had clutched her hand tightly then, his saddened eyes suddenly as fierce and angry as they had been when she first knew him as the Hound.

_You won’t…you can’t…don’t you leave me, little bird: you hear me? I don’t want to be without you._

_You must look after the children, Sandor, and love them all. Promise me. Sandor: promise me._

She had begged him tearfully, and he had promised her. Sansa had lived and they had kept their promises, to their children and to each other.

_I promised him,_ she reminded herself as she glanced towards their big bed, covered in furs and fitted with a rough wooden headboard draped with a faded shawl, her attempt to cheer the still mostly bare room with its blackened ceilings and scarred wooden beams.

Once she had been out of danger, the maester had spoken to them to advise that Sansa should not attempt to have any more children until she had sufficiently recovered from the difficult birth and regained her strength. He had spoken delicately, knowing what his counsel would mean to them: they were not to share a bed for-

“A year?!” Sansa had exclaimed with dismay.

The maester had pursed his lips unhappily but persisted. “At the very least, my lady; though two years would serve better. You have lost much blood and there is not sufficient food at Winterfell to aid in a swifter recovery of your strength. I am sorry, my lord,” he had added, inclining his head to Sandor who sat silently as the man had spoken, “but I would not counsel such a- a necessity if I did not think it in the best interest of Lady Clegane’s health.”

Sandor had nodded imperceptibly but then replied in a quiet rasp: “It shall be as you say then, maester.”

“No!” Sansa insisted with uncharacteristic outspokenness. “Surely maester,” she tried to recover her composure, “there must be some other course…moon tea, perhaps,” she suggested tentatively, hoping that he would not disapprove.

“There is no moon tea in Winterfell, my lady; at least not that I am aware of,” he offered. “The ingredients cannot be cultivated in winter and there are none in our depleted stores. Of course, I can make discreet inquiries at other castles…at Bear Island mayhaps?”

“Please, maester, if you would be so good-“

“I will do my best, my lady, however I still counsel that you…abstain for some time to allow yourself to heal?” He glanced awkwardly at Sandor who again shortly nodded his agreement. Once the maester had left, Sansa turned to Sandor.

“Sandor, we cannot-“

But he looked at her stony-faced and unyielding: “We will do as the maester advises until you are well,” he rasped almost formally.

Sansa dropped her eyes and blushed. “But, Sandor, a year? Surely he exaggerates-“

“ _Two_ years was his counsel.”

She shook her head stubbornly. “I cannot believe that you would care for me so little as to agree-“

“I will _not_ lose you,” he rasped darkly. “I almost did this once…and years ago; I won’t risk it again.”

Sansa swallowed her tears. “But if we cannot share a bed, nor have any more children, Sandor, then we may as well be lost to each other,” she argued.

She saw him close his eyes tightly before looking at her again.

“It’s not forever, little bird: just until you are well again,” he whispered hoarsely.

Her eyes filled now. “It’s so very long, it will feel like forever,” she sobbed.

He sighed slowly through his nose. “Might be…in time, mind you, that we find…other ways to be together, little bird; without risking children. We have done before,” he reminded her archly with a raised brow.

Sansa sniffled. “So, you will stay with me,” she prompted encouragingly, “in our bed?”

He hesitated. “Not as yet,” he rasped. “I’ll stay in the Blackfish’s chambers while he visits your brothers at the wall; then I’ll find a chamber of my own. One more word,” he warned her when he saw that she would argue again, “and I’ll bed down in the stables with Stranger for the next two years,” he threatened, and Sansa believed him.

Reluctantly, she nodded.

“You got a promise from me, little bird, now I’ll have one from you: you will do as the maester says and not plead, or pout prettily, or tempt me into doing what will endanger you,” he insisted. “I –I grew up without a mother,” he reminded her firmly but haltingly, “and will not have our pups do the same.”

Sansa’s eyes widened at his words. It was the most he had said about his unhappy childhood in years, and she could understand his concern for her and their children. Her heart softened towards him, even as it sank to think of so long without him in her bed.

“I- I promise, Sandor. I- you are right to think of the children foremost; I just wish…” she reached for his hand but he crossed his arms over his chest. She withdrew her hand. “I promise,” she repeated instead.

That had been a year ago, Sansa thought now, as she held her youngest to her. An entire year had passed and though Sandor sometimes came to their bed so that they could pleasure each other and even to hold her, he often returned to the separate chamber he now occupied, leaving Sansa to sleep and wake alone as she had when they first returned to Winterfell and they sought to hide their love from the others in the castle.

His small chamber was near their daughter Catya’s bedchamber and the nursery where their sons slept with the nurse. She had been touched that he had chosen to be near their children instead of choosing a chamber on the same hallway with her brother Rickon and the Blackfish. She had sometimes found him with the children when she went to visit during the day or in the evening when they were being bathed and they all sat together as Sansa told them stories or sang them to sleep. It was usually after such evenings that he would accompany her back to their bed, even sometimes pulling her into a darkened alcove or empty hallway to kiss her hungrily and lift her skirts to touch her as she tore at his lacings and eased his want for her with her hands or her mouth. They both had shattering peaks that left them weak and panting, but for Sansa it was never enough. She wanted him desperately, wanted him to have her so badly that she almost wished to cry and plead with him. But she had promised, and so she never begged but cried into her bolster instead, sometimes unleashing torrents of bitter tears to release her frustration and loneliness. Osha may believe that a lady needed time to herself but Sansa had had quite enough time to herself. She wanted Sandor back.

In her loneliness, Sansa had become jealous of how and where Sandor spent his time away from her. She suspected him of avoiding her and so sometimes invented reasons to seek him out, only to discover that he was making plans to breed his courser with the best mares in the castle stables. He even consulted with the old man who handled the livestock to learn what he knew of horse breeding and birthing. Other times, she knew he had been to the maester to read any scrolls he might have on the matter. Since there were few, the maester again offered to inquire at other castles for him. Sansa was pleased that Sandor had developed an interest to occupy him, and she knew how much he cared for his prize warhorse. But he had not shared his interest or his plans with her, and so it only served to increase her sense of loneliness. She felt a failure, that her husband should be more interested in the mating and breeding of his courser than he should be with mating and breeding with her.

Suddenly restless, she rose now with her son still in her arms.

“I will take Robb to the nurse, Osha, thank you.”

“Aye, m’lady,” the woman replied. “I’m off te see the lit’l lord breaks his fast afore trainin’ wit’ Lord Clegane.”

As she approached her children’s rooms, she was surprised to hear them clamoring excitedly until she stood in the doorway and saw Sandor standing over them, still sweaty from training though divested of his armour and gauntlets.

“Papa Dog!” Catya gushed her nickname for him as she hugged his leg. Her dark hair was growing past her shoulders and she had tiny, square white teeth; so far, all even. She had her father’s grey eyes. Catya adored her Papa and had called him her Papa Dog since she had been old enough to understand the dog sigil that Sansa had stitched to his tunics.

“Your Papa Dog had come to sniff his pups!” he rasped and bent to push his nose into Catya’s neck, making her squeal and giggle happily. Then he stepped to take Ned from the nurse and growled playfully at him. Ned gazed at him with steady blue eyes before feebly growling back. Sandor then sat on a wooden bench with a child on either side of him before he looked up and saw Sansa.

“Here’s your Mama come to see her pups too,” he told them. “My lady,” he greeted her. “How is that little one?” he nodded indicating Robb.

“His belly is full of milk and his eyes are full of sleep,” she replied. “A kiss from your Papa then, and back to dreaming,” she crooned to the sleepy boy. She held him out to Sandor who leaned to kiss his brow before handing him to the nurse to set him down in his cradle near the hearth.

Sansa sat on the bench next to her daughter and smiled at Sandor. “I believe spring is nigh upon us, my lord,” she began hopefully.

“Aye, and much to be done before it is. Do you sit the high seat today, my lady?”

“Y-yes, I hope to parcel out more land for crofts. There are many worthy commons and soldiers who would seek a new life now, a life with families and crops and-“

“I needs break my fast before training with Rickon. Let me escort you to the hall. Children, be good for nurse, or we’ll let her take you back to the mountains to her people.”

“No!” shrieked Catya with a childish pout. “ _No_ leave Mama and Papa dog!”

“Then be a little lady like your Mama: mind your nurse, and your brothers.”

“I be good. I wide wit’ Papa Dog,” she called after him.

Sandor turned and stopped, considering her words. “Alright, girl: if you are good you can ride with your Papa Dog,” he rasped gently.

“Stwaingeh.”

He nodded once. “We’ll ride Stranger. Twice around the yard, I promise.”

Once in the passageway, Sansa spoke again. “It is remarkable that Stranger lets you ride with Catya and yet he will still try to bite your squire.”

“My squire’s not my pup; Stranger knows. I’d let cook make stew of his hindquarters if Catya were harmed,” he only half-jested.

“I thought you hoped to put him out to stud,” she ventured.

Sandor grunted absently. “Might be I will…in the spring. Have you eaten?”

“Yes, in my… _our_ chambers-“

“Then I’ll leave you. Looks like the maester awaits you, my lady,” he nodded in his direction near the high seat as he stepped away to join his soldiers at tables near the great hearth. Sansa stopped him with a hand on his sleeve. He looked at her curiously.

“If it please you, my lord,” she spoke more formally when there were others about, believing he deserved the respect of his rank and position, “I-I have news to share from the maester,” she spoke hesitantly, “and it is…private. Mayhaps we may speak in the solar after your training with Rickon?”

Sandor eyed her sharply now but bowed his head. “If it please you, my lady,” he rasped with equal formality before turning away.

Sansa wrung her hands together as she watched him walk away. Only that morning, the maester had come to her chambers and brought her welcome news.

He had closed the door behind him and spoken confidentially to her. “My lady, the lessened cold and snow has permitted riders between Winterfell and White Harbor to travel more easily. I am happy to report, and hope that you and Lord Clegane will be happy as well,” he hesitated, “that I have received replenishments of many herbs and remedies…and may now provide you with efficacious moon tea…if that is still your wish, my lady.”

Sansa felt exultant at the news, and needed to refrain herself to embracing the maester. Instead she stood demurely with her hands held together and thanked him graciously.

“I- I will needs consult with my lord, maester; but I thank you for your assistance, as always. Will we be greeting more commons in the hall this day?”

“We will, my lady: there are a number who have come to inquire about crofts and places in the Winter town. I cannot help but hope that we will soon be blessed with abundant crops and more trade once spring has truly arrived.”

“As do I, maester. Let us pray to the old gods and the new that our hopes are fulfilled. The North needs rise again.”

And so Sansa had taken the time to open her shutters and lean out to breathe the fresh air and let her heart fill with hope that Sandor would share her happiness. While she did look forward to her business in the hall and hoped for a place for all her commons and for good harvests, Sansa could also now hope to have Sandor back in their chambers and their bed.


	2. Chapter 2

“Moon tea?” Sandor rasped with a sneer. “The last time you were taking the moon tea, girl, you got with Catya.” They had not been married when Catya was conceived and Sandor had advised Sansa to marry a lord for an alliance; but when she got with his child, he had married her despite believing it could ruin her and her family’s chance to restore Winterfell and the North. He had fought hard with their army to ensure her and her family’s safety; after their marriage he had fought for their lives because he believed if they did not win they would surely die.

“That was my fault, Sandor: it was not proper moon tea, and not strong enough.” She reached to put a hand on his shoulder and stood closer to him as he sat in his great armchair in her father’s solar. “I am sorry that I disappointed you, Sandor; but I have never been sorry that we begot Catya and that we married.”

“Buggering hells neither have I, little bird,” he said resignedly, “but you know this is not the same-“

“You thought it was life and death then as well; that you or I or both of us and our child would be killed if we were together. We decided then that we wanted our life together no matter the cost; that we should have some happiness in the harsh world in which we were living, for however long it would last.” She stood before him now and kneeled before his knees to gaze up at him. “Sandor, my love, I still feel that way…and the maester swears the tea will be efficacious.”

“What?”

“That it will work properly, as it should, to prevent my womb from quickening,” she coloured to say to him, though he did not shrink from straightforward talk.

Sandor’s mouth twitched and he looked away from her. “Don’t ask me to do this, girl, to cause you harm or to risk losing you. You know my mind, and you promised.”

“Sandor, how many times have you told me that you would never hurt me? My love, it only ever hurts me when you keep me at this distance because of fear or your…your silly, romantic notion that I am fragile and needs be treated delicately.”

“ _My_ silly romantic notion?” he rasped incredulously.

“Yes,” she insisted. “You persist in believing that I am doomed to pain and misfortune and that only you can prevent it. I love that you want to keep me safe, Sandor, but I am not a frightened little girl anymore; I now have near twenty years. I am a woman grown, wedded and bedded, and thrice a mother; _and_ I am the Lady of Winterfell and Warden of the North.”

“And had I not found you again?” he challenged. “You would be at best a whore to that whoremonger Littlefinger, or dead after moons in a black cell being tortured by Cersei’s goalers and then beheaded by Ilyn Payne. Or might be you would be Lady Lannister again; don’t think for a moment girl that the bloody Imp would have shunned your bed to spare your life.”

Sansa stiffened in defensiveness. “And if I had not found you again, Sandor? Would you still be digging graves on the Quiet Isle, living life as a brown brother of a faith you once mocked; or would you be at the wall, or dead fighting the Others because I had not been in Winterfell to let Daenerys Targaryen bring her dragons to the North?”

Sandor’s mouth twitched again. “Well fought, my lady,” he conceded, “I yield…on this matter. The damned tea though-“

“Sandor, forgive me; it was never my intention to fight but, please my love, consider how many times I have watched you ride off to battle and feared that I might lose you; and yet you left and I let you, knowing you would risk all for us. Do you believe that I love you any less? I would die for you as well, Sandor.” She would not allow fear of death to stop them from living. _Valar morghulis,_ Arya had taught her during her brief return to Winterfell: all men must die.

“If I had died, little bird, you would have wed again, do not doubt it. And even if you hadn’t, the pups would have your brother and the Blackfish to be as fathers to them. But do you think I would have married another; or that any woman could be a mother to them as you are? They need _you_ , little bird.” He looked away again. “So do I,” he muttered shortly.

Sansa reached her hand to his scarred cheek and caressed him gently. Sandor closed his eyes tightly.

“You have me, Sandor,” she murmured warmly, “for as long as the gods see fit to keep me here. Will you not come to me as my husband, my love, and let me take the tea? I will make you so happy, my love, I promise-“

“Have I not made you happy these many moons, little bird?” he asked.

Sansa smiled tenderly at him. “Oh yes, Sandor: you always make me so very happy: that is why I want you so very much, and why I want to give myself to you as- as much as I possibly can.”

Sandor snorted through his nose, not unkindly though. “I feel I am back in that cottage, little bird: you wouldn’t take my refusal then either,” he murmured raspingly. They had hidden in a cottage deep in the woods on their journey back to the North, and in the days and nights there they had become lovers.

Sansa blushed and shook her head slowly. “No,” she whispered, “I guess I would not.” She moved closer to him now. “Our cottage,” she ventured wistfully, “oh, Sandor, how I remember those nights together. You were so gentle with me, and I loved you so much. I have always loved being with you,” she hesitated now. “Has it changed for you, my love? I-“

He turned to her suddenly, his grey eyes fierce, and he grabbed hold of her slender wrist in his large calloused hand.

“Nothing has changed, little bird, and don’t pretend I’ve always been gentle with you; not when I’ve taken you up against stable walls like a wench, and torn at your smallclothes to mount you like a dog. Why do you think I won’t stay in our bed with you? Seven hells, girl,” he leaned in closer to her and tightened his grip on her wrist, “every time I see you walking away, I want to plow you like a draught horse.”

Sansa blushed pink and ducked her head but still a small smile touched the corners of her mouth.

“I see,” he rasped closer, “like that, do you? And you a high born lady.” He released her wrist and sat back but Sansa placed her white hand over his.

“Sandor,” she spoke softly, “of course I like that you should desire me,” she blushed deeper, “as much as I desire you. Have we not learned to…to please each other…in so many ways?”

Sandor sniffed and continued to eye her warily.

“Aye,” he conceded hoarsely, “that we have, little bird.”

Sandor had tried his best to be gentle with her when they first lain together: Sansa had been a maid though having once pretended to be a bastard girl, she had known more than a noble girl should. But then, Sandor had known more than an ugly brute of a dog should.

Many years before, a Dornish handmaiden of Cersei’s had seduced him when he was in the queen’s service and still young, not yet twenty years: the little bird’s age now. The handmaid had been meant to distract him when the Kingslayer visited his sister’s bedroom to cuckold King Robert, but Sandor had not known that. He had thought that she had wanted him, and he had been so grateful to feel wanted, to feel like a man and not a dog to be feared or pitied, that he would have done anything to please her. She may have secretly despised him, but she had not hated his hard cock or his strong body, and she had used both, and him, for her own pleasure. She had taught him to use his fingers, his mouth and his tongue on every part of her and reveled in it: groaning and gasping her sighs of release and twisting and arching her tawny body when he brought her to her peak again and again. He had felt as proud when he made her shudder and cry out as he had when he had killed men in battle; and he had finally believed that he was good for something besides killing. She had even smiled at him and laughed, well, with him he had thought; but the jest had really been on him. It had all been a twisted ruse.

In time, Cersei had rewarded her handmaiden’s sacrifice with a betrothal to a Dornish knight; Sandor had gone back to fucking sullen whores who turned their faces and bodies away from him: making him again a dog for true. But now he knew what he was missing. It had only made him angrier, as much at himself for having been a fool as towards women who used their bodies to dupe and control men. He had not wanted the little bird to feel that she needed to do the same, to give herself to him so that he would stay with her and protect her. He would have done that just to be near her, and to know that she was safe. Still, when she had sweetly offered herself and said it was for love, he had given in to her…and himself, and they had lain together and it had been more tender, more loving and more wonderful than he could have imagined.

But even in their cottage, they were still not safe. He had insisted on bringing her back to the North, he had stayed with her and fought battles and endured near-starvation rations and bitter, fucking cold just to be with her and keep her safe. He had even married her when she got with child, against his better instincts and his own feelings of unworthiness. And she had loved him, bedded with him, reveling in his touch as the Dornish handmaid once had; only the little bird had loved it because it was _him_ , and she had eagerly learned to touch and pleasure him as well. She had smiled and laughed with him, and shed tears of happiness when they wed in the godswood, and again when he rode home victorious from the Dreadfort, and when she had put their newborn babes in his arms…

_Our pups_ , he thought _. Another could kill her._

He remembered seeing the maester’s face when he arrived at their chamber door after running from the godswood where he had been imploring her tree gods to let her live, and then seeing the little bird in their bed: ghostly pale and still, with sunken eyes and colorless lips, weary from nearly two days of labour and weak from loss of blood. All the fucking blood that had stained the sheets the women were hurrying to carry away, as though that could clear the sickening smell from the too-warm room, or take the overwhelming dread from his heart.

He closed his eyes tightly now, trying to forget; but he could not. _He had promised._

“Sandor?” Sansa asked him questioningly now, but he could only hear her weakened voice from that hellish night.

_Sandor?_ She had whispered so feebly that he could hardly hear her. He leaned in closer and was dumfounded to see how pale she was. He could see the veins in her neck, pale lavender instead of blue, and her pulse fluttering weakly where she turned her head towards him.

_Promise me…our son…do not hate him, Sandor, please…not his fault._

_Hush, little bird. Don’t talk. Rest now._

_No. Promise me…if anything…love our children, Sandor…all of them. Robb…love him…for me._

He had taken her hand. It had been light as a feather, a butterfly’s wing: soft and slight, without warmth.

_Don’t…you can’t, little bird…I don’t want to be without you._ The old rage, from loss and despair of being alone and unloved, surfaced and died again. _Not now: be strong for her, and she will be strong. She’s a wolf, she’ll fight._

She took a deep breath and he saw the pain in her face and in her eyes. He would do anything to staunch that pain for her.

_Promise me,_ she begged now with a voice full of tears. _Sandor-_

_I promise, little bird. Rest. Get well._

The wildling woman had put the pup in his arms that time, her eyes locked on his as she did. He had taken the boy, a squirming bundle with deep red fuzz covering his head: Sansa’s hair, more so than the first boy. He was so much like her that his heart had softened, and he had loved it. He turned back to Sansa to tell her but she was sleeping, the maester murmured, only sleeping. He held the boy tighter. He held him throughout the days and nights that followed, reassuring the other children that their Mama was resting, that she would be well again.

The solitary and sullen man who had shunned others now found comfort in his family; not just his children but his young brother, Rickon, and the Blackfish, who sat with him quietly throughout his vigil or sat with Sansa when he slept fitfully on the straw pallet by the bed where she lay day after day. Days turned into a fortnight, then a moon’s turn, and Sansa’s color began to return to her cheeks. She sat up, she ate bread with her broth, she took her first slow steps. Sandor returned to the training yard and in time walked the walls and rode out on patrols. Still, he visited his children in the nursery where Catya ran to him with open arms and little Ned studied him with watchful eyes: curious and slightly awed by him. Baby Robb dozed or blew bubbles on his lips and kicked his feet, always content. His sweetness seemed to make up for the pain he had caused coming into the world, and no one could grudge him.

The day Sansa returned to the Great Hall, leaning on Sandor’s arm, everyone stood. They bowed and murmured respectfully until cheers broke out and cries of _the Starks in Winterfell_ sounded from every corner. They were all smiling at her; but she was smiling up at him as she took her place in the high seat: the Stark in Winterfell. Lady Clegane.

Later Sandor found himself before the heart tree, drawn to the ancient face. Awkwardly, he kneeled and lowered his head.

“I don’t know why you have given me so much; I know I don’t deserve it. But I’ve kept my word; so if you must take it away then take me, not her.”

“Sandor?” Sansa repeated now, kneeling before him in her father’s solar: alive. He had prayed for her to live.

_I promised. I promised that I would do anything._

He looked away again and his grey eyes were dark and stormy.

“I promised,” he rasped finally.

Sansa was confused. “What did you promise, my love; and to whom?”

“I…buggering hells,” he swore at the memory of his own helplessness. “I swore to your old gods that…that I would bloody do anything, _anything_ if they let you live.” He raised his hand and passed it wearily over his face. “When the maester told us…I agreed. It seemed a fair price at the time, little bird…though it has damn-near killed me some nights, not to be next to you,” he whispered hoarsely. He reached now to tenderly brush away a strand of her hair.

Sansa’s eyes filled with tears to know that their separation had been as difficult for him as it had for her. She felt ashamed that she had been so jealous of his time and attention. She turned her head to press her cheek into his hand now.

“Oh, Sandor…forgive me for causing you so much pain…”

“Don’t…it wasn’t your fault,” he told her.

Sansa bit her lip tentatively. “But Sandor, the maester only said that we should not have children not that we should not lie together. The moon tea-“

“…has failed before,” he rasped firmly. “I won’t kill you, girl: not to make my cock happy.”

Sansa looked at him with obvious dismay. “Is that all it is to you, Sandor?”

“Seven hells, no,” he blustered, “you know that. But it’s not just me who would lose you: our pups, Rickon, the Blackfish, your brothers at the Wall, bugger me: the castle and all the North. We all need you, little bird; not just me…you know that.”

Sansa nodded, even as her tears welled up again.

“I do know, Sandor,” she replied. Sansa was a high-born lady, and knew her duties as well as her courtesies. “Forgive me. I did not mean to be selfish, to think only of myself; I only wished to be happy. We have had many trials you and I, and I wanted us both to be as happy as we could be.”

Sansa stood now and resolutely wiped her tears away; then she smoothed her dress. Sandor saw her take a deep breath and lift her chin.

“I must see to the kitchen stores before supper is prepared. Will you be in the hall for our evening meal?’

Sandor looked at her. “Aye, little bird: I’ll be there.”

Sansa smiled gently and nodded to him before turning to leave the solar with graceful, measured steps. Sandor watched her leave and his eyes followed the swing of her long hair down her back and the gentle swaying of her hips and the fall of her grey wool gown over her rounded bottom.

“Seven fucking hells,” he swore under his breath.

…….

Sansa returned to her chambers after seeing her children to bed with their nurse. Sandor had not been there and though she had been disappointed she had also not been surprised: she felt that she had brought too much to bear on him that day and understood that he may want to keep his distance. Nevertheless, is still hurt.

She sat down on her wooden stool near the shuttered window and thought of her mother, the Lady Catelyn, and how she had endured having her husband’s bastard in her home to be raised with her own legitimate children. She had thought her mother brave and gracious when she was a girl but now she wondered is her mother would have wasted her time on resentment if she had known how she would lose her husband to the royal executioner, never to grow old with her lord, or to see their children have grandchildren.

“Oh mother, had you but known…you would not have wasted a moment with father,” she murmured sadly.

When a soft knock sounded, Sansa called to the person to enter. She expected her maid Rose to prepare her for bed but instead the maester stepped into her chamber. Sansa stood to greet him.

“Good evening, maester; forgive me, I had expected my maid.”

“Good evening, my lady; I have come to administer your first dose of tea,” he told her pleasantly.

Knowing that she needed to turn the man away, Sansa struggled to maintain her composure. “I thank you, maester,” she replied pleasantly, “I- I have spoken with my lord-“ she began.

“Yes, my lady, Lord Clegane did come to inquire about the proper procedure and dosage to ensure your continued health,” the man told her reassuringly, “and I was more than willing to assure him that you would be perfectly safe in lying together as long as we adhere strictly to the course of treatment recommended by the Citadel. Therefore you must begin by consuming the tea every night for a fortnight before you once again share a bed,” he spoke quietly and discreetly.

Sansa stood speechless for a moment. “My lord came to you today?”

The maester looked to the steaming cup in his hand and back to her. “Yes, my lady; I understood that you wished to begin taking the tea immediately so that…well…”

“Of course,” Sansa smiled and shook her head as though absent-minded. “Forgive me but my lord only told me that he would speak with you when he was at liberty to do so. His duties are numerous, as you know.”

“Indeed, my lady, but it _has_ been a year already and, well, I thought it best if I brought you the tea forthwith so that we might begin to monitor your health. Will you sit again to drink, my lady? You must finish the cup completely.”

Sansa smiled weakly at the thought of being watched. “Doubtless my lord has informed you that I had failed to properly administer moon tea on my own,” she acknowledged.

The maester shook his head: “No, my lady, though that would certainly explain his very exacting questions. He is most anxious for your continued well-being; and in such a case where an undesirable pregnancy would be so very dangerous, my lady, the Citadel counsels close monitoring and record-keeping of every dose,” he hesitated before nodding to the cup in his outstretched hand. “If you would, my lady,” he prompted kindly.

Sansa took the cup and turned to seat herself upon her little stool. With a prayer of gratitude, she closed her eyes and sipped steadily at the now tepid tea, finally up-ending the cup to show the maester that she had emptied it before handing it back to him.

He took it from her and paused before leaving.

“If you would permit me to say, my lady, it is a rare man who would put the health and the life of his lady wife above his…needs, and his desire for heirs. I fear that many men consider their wives…replaceable,” he finished sadly.

Sansa thought to reply that she knew only too well: having once been desired solely for her claim to Winterfell, she realized that she would also needs produce an heir for her husband to cement her his ambitions. Had Tyrion pressed his rights as her husband and Joffrey had lived, Sansa did not doubt that if she had birthed a son, she would have soon afterward suffered an accident or deadly illness or mayhaps even been tried for treason and executed.

“My lord is such a rare man, maester,” she replied instead, “and I thank you for your kind words and your counsel. Good night, maester.”

“Good night, my lady.”

Sansa was still sitting near the shutters when her maid knocked and slipped into the room.

“Will ye’ go t’bed now, m’lady?” the young woman asked.

Sansa looked at her and weighed her thoughts. “I- forgive me, Rose, did you notice if my lord was still in the great hall? I-“

Rose shook her head. “Nay, m’lady: he be up on th’walls wit’ the first watch. Kit says m’lord still takes his turn at watch wit’ th’soldiers, though there be more o’them now. They like that ‘e takes his turn, m’lady; that he don’t act above them ‘cause he was made a lord.”

Sansa smiled. Rose had come to Winterfell as a young widow, a pretty girl with a new baby; and she soon after caught the eye of a young soldier named Kit. He had been an orphan that Sansa’s father had placed with a family of crofters who had come to the castle to serve with the garrison. The two young commoners had fallen in love and had since been wed and had a child of their own and, come Spring, they hoped to reclaim the croft of Kit’s former family. No one knew what had happened to them or where they had gone. Sansa was happy for them, but sad to lose them. It seemed that she lost so many people in her life.

“Thank you, Rose,” she sighed. “I guess I will undress for bed then.”

Whatever Sandor’s reasons for changing his mind, Sansa realized she was not like to find out this night. After Rose had helped her don her nightdress and brushed her hair, Sansa climbed into bed and lay staring at the flicker of light from the hearth on the darkened ceiling of her chamber.

_Our chamber_ , she thought stubbornly, _and our bed. Please come back to me, my love: we will always have our trials but we must make our own happiness._

When sleep failed to take her, she rose from her bed and paced the rough wooden floors in her bare feet with a shawl wrapped over her slender shoulders. Finally she stepped into her fur slippers, tied on her robe and covered herself with a cloak. She shut the door behind her and took a torch from the wall. Then she set off to find Sandor.


	3. Chapter 3

As she entered the darkened hallway where Sandor and their children had their chambers, Sansa hesitated. Surely he meant to come to her and tell her of his decision, she assured herself; and mayhaps he would be angry if she pressed him for answers now. Mayhaps he was even still on the walls with the first watch. She shook her head and backed away, intending to wait for him to come to her in the morning, and then swiftly turned around to nearly collide headlong into his massively broad chest. They both jumped back, startled.

“Bloody buggering hells, little bird,” he rasped angrily, eyeing the flame of her torch warily. He snatched it away and held it up high and away from his face. “What in seven hells are you doing out of bed in the middle of the night?”

Sansa’s hand flew to her throat. “I- I needed to speak with you, Sandor. I…” She suddenly felt foolish but remembered the determination that had made her set out to find him. “The maester brought me a cup of moon tea tonight. I- I wanted…I needed to know why you changed your mind.”

“And that couldn’t wait until the bloody sun was up?” he snapped, but he relented when he saw her drop her eyes in confusion. “Come, little bird,” he said to her, and closed his hand around her upper arm as he steered he towards his small chamber. Outside the door, he placed the torch in a holder on the wall and then let her in.

“Sit,” he ordered mildly and walked passed her to the small hearth to stoke the fire. He added a small branch from a basket of kindling and turned back to her to see her sitting tentatively on his narrow bed. His eyes widened in surprise and so Sansa immediately stood up again.

“I- I’m sorry,” she stammered,” but there was no place else to sit.” She hugged herself, feeling suddenly awkward to be alone with him in his close quarters.

“Bugger me: you’re right. Best sit then,” he told her and moved his pile of clothes to one side and sat opposite her on a narrow bench with his long legs sprawled awkwardly in the cramped space. He stared at her until she spoke again.

“The maester…I drank the tea, of course; but…I fear I don’t understand, Sandor. You were so adamant this evening when we last spoke. Why-“

“It was the way you walked away from me,” he rasped shortly.

Sansa blushed. “Oh. You…you wanted me,” she murmured.

“I always want you, girl,” he replied shortly, “but that wasn’t the reason. You looked hurt. I seem to have a gift for hurting you by telling you the truth; but you bravely wiped your tears away and raised your head and remembered your duty,” he paused before continuing. “Your father…your father was dutiful and honourable and even brave…but we both know what happened to him.”

Sansa tensed and went cold. She could not help it. She remembered Sandor’s words from the roof of the Red Keep:

_…the mighty Eddard Stark, of a line eight thousand years old…but Ilyn Payne’s blade went through his neck all the same, didn’t it?_

Sandor could plainly see her distress and became solemn.

“I’m sorry, little bird, to talk plain and to remind you of hurtful things,” he rasped gruffly.

“We have both said our sorrys for those days, Sandor, and need not say them again. But…why would you think of my father?” she asked with a pained expression.

“Doing what I think is right, or what you think is right…it don’t mean that you’ll live,” he told her unhappily.” Seems the gods, old or new, don’t work that way.”

Sansa shook her head uncomprehendingly. “But Sandor, surely you don’t mean that I should not be honourable, or do what is right?”

“Not so much that you’re not happy. I know you: you’ll do what’s right no matter what, even if it costs you your own happiness. Well I brought you home to the North so you could be happy and I buggering want you to be happy, little bird. You deserve it; though I’m damned if I know why I’m the one to make you happy; I only hope it is as happy as you have made me.”

He ducked his head ruefully, and spoke again.

“But, little bird, I never thought I was supposed to be happy, or have you, or pups, or buggering lands and a title…I can’t bloody help thinking it’s all a mistake…and that the gods will someday realize they were wrong and then take you from me…”

“Oh, Sandor…” she whispered. She realized now that it was not her he believed was doomed to misery, but himself; and the worst misery he could imagine would be to lose her. He had been alone and unhappy for so long as a man that he felt it was his inexorable fate, or worse: that he did not deserve differently. Her heart ached for him. She reached for his hands to comfort him, to tell him the gods were not so cruel. But she knew that they were; or at least they did not spare you suffering even if you tried your hardest to be good. You had to be good because you wanted to and because you believed it was right; not for a reward or for mercy from the gods because you were as like not to get it.

“Bugger that anyway,” he jeered now. “Might be…it just might be the gods don’t grudge me having you as much as I though they did. If the maester knows his art, and you promise to follow his ministrations as he says…I don’t see why we can’t both be happy, and be together.”

Sansa smiled in relief and gratitude. “Thank you, Sandor. I want you to be happy too; you know that, don’t you? I will do as the maester says, Sandor: I promise. I would not cause you any more concern, my love, I…you have made me so very happy.”

Impulsively, she sprung from the bed to embrace him. Sandor turned his head and pulled her arms away from his neck.

“A fortnight,” he lectured her sternly. “We must wait a fortnight, he told me.”

Sansa sat back now and clutched her hands together. “Yes, of course, Sandor. Forgive me, but…we may do as we have been doing…”

Sandor looked at her longingly but then he stood abruptly and shook his head stubbornly. “I’m taking you back to your chambers, little bird.” His eyes raked down her body though she was covered with her bedgown, robe and cloak. “You’re not safe with this dog tonight. Come…and walk behind me this time,” he ordered. He yanked open his chamber door and snatched the torch from the wall, leaving her to follow him.

Sansa followed docilely though she prayed her thanks to the gods as she walked behind him.

_Please let the worst be behind us now. Help him to feel worthy of love, for I do love him and so do our children. Let him return our love without fear. He has become such a good man: brave and gentle and strong as my father wanted for me._

“In you go,” Sandor rasped as he opened the door for her, “and stay here until your maid comes in the morning; don’t let me catch you out again.” He looked down at her sternly.

Sansa chaffed at being spoken to like a child but did not want to argue. She decided to show him she was no child and instead returned his stern look with a gaze of loving warmth.

“Will you not kiss me goodnight, my love?” she teased.

“Mind yourself, girl,” he warned her.

She looked up at him invitingly. “I’ll mind myself…for now; but in a fortnight, Sandor Clegane, you’ll not be safe with this little bird. In a fortnight, you’ll be _mine_.” She reached up on tiptoe now to kiss him lightly and lingeringly. She heard him catch his breath and smiled to herself.

“Sleep well, my love,” she whispered and closed the door of their chamber.

“Bloody little chance of _that,_ ” she heard him rasp through the door.

Sansa giggled and waited to hear his footsteps retreat back down the hall. When she did not hear him leave, she tiptoed back to the door and thought she could hear his breathing and the sounds of the flickering torch. She now felt contrite for having teased him; after all he had admitted that he always wanted her.

“I love you, Sandor,” she said quietly.

She heard his voice from right on the other side of the door.

“Go to bed, girl,” he said gruffly, but she also heard his hand slide down the wooden door and away.

Sansa turned to the bed and climbed in, unsure of what to expect. She still did not hear his footsteps and wondered if he would stay out in the hallway until morning.

_I wanted him to stay with me, but not like this. He is my husband, not my sworn shield._

She sat back against the bolster, still wearing her robe and cloak, and waited. She thought about having Sandor once more in their bed but realized that she could never fall asleep, nor leave him to stand outside her door if she thought of their lying together. _So close,_ she thought.

Instead she thought of their children and how much she loved them. She had carried Catya while Sandor fought battles in the North, including the siege of the Dreadfort; he had in fact been fighting when Catya was born while Sansa was attended by Maege Mormont and Osha. Ned had been carried while a murderer stalked the winter town and eventually Winterfell. He had tried to kill Sansa and her unborn babe; and she had in turn had to condemn him to death and watch as Sandor took his head in the name of the Starks and Queen Daenerys. Good and bad always came together, or so it seemed: they suffered their trials but they had their children.

Though baby Robb had been carried in the harsh cold of winter as well, there had been none of the more dangerous threats that had plagued them before, and so Sansa had dared hope then that their worst struggles had passed. Robb’s difficult birth had caught her unguarded and so she was reminded of how easily things could turn. She had scolded herself that she should never have needed reminding. Her young life had once turned from a dream to a nightmare so swiftly that she had kept hoping in vain that she would wake and find her life as it once was: with her parents and siblings alive, and Lady too; all living in Winterfell. It had taken her a very long time to find happiness again; and part of that happiness, the greatest part, was having Sandor’s love and giving him children.

_Please let me have more babes. He loves them, and so it makes him happy as well. I will risk my life if I must; only please leave my children their father. He will love them and keep them safe._

When she woke later, she knew something had changed. She looked around and saw that she had fallen asleep still curled up at the head of the bed but that the furs had been pulled up and tucked around her, and another log added to the hearth fire.

_Sandor?_

Instinctively, she thought to open the door and see if he were still outside keeping vigil but she stopped herself. She realized if he were not there that she would run to his chamber and beg him to let her stay with him, or to come back to their bed; only just to sleep beside her.

_He is already giving me what I wanted; he wants me to be happy. I needs only wait a fortnight…I have waited longer to have him with me, to have him love me._

No, she realized, that wasn’t right; he had loved her long before she knew. But he had not thought himself worthy, and certainly did not think she would ever return his love; he sometimes still did not seem to believe it. It made her want him more, so that she could show him how much she loved him and reassure him. She feared any time spend apart would only make him doubt himself again, and so then make him more distant with her.

_But he watches over me as he did in…in King’s Landing, and when we came North. Mayhaps it is his way of being with me when he thinks that he cannot. He has always promised to keep me safe. It is how he shows that he loves me; not with words…or songs or favours, but with himself._

She would have to be patient; she would needs be kind to him, and to trust in him. She would have to be brave.

“I can be brave,” she heard herself say assuredly in the dark stillness of the empty room. “I promised him.”

…….

The proscribed fortnight passed slowly. Every evening the maester brought Sansa her tea and every evening she drank it down as he watched. Sandor kept busy with the garrison, training new recruits as the soldiers who had chosen to leave for crofts or other villages or return to the castles of the lord who had sent them to help defend Winterfell began to leave. Some now had young families, having married girls from among the servants of the castle or daughters of tradesmen in the winter town.

Sansa in turn busied herself with the many new arrivals. Young men and girls, including wildlings from the Gift, came seeking positions in the castle. Even beyond the Wall, the Starks of Winterfell were known to the wildlings through songs and stories of the North. Sansa had heard that songs of the young King in the North and his direwolf were sung in taverns in White Harbor but no one in Winterfell had heard them. She was not ready to hear them, and could not imagine finding solace in such songs as she once did as a girl. Unbeknownst to her, both Sandor and Osha had quietly forbidden the songs in Winterfell and no one had dared cross them, for none wished to cause grief to their lady.

Sansa sometimes found Sandor with the children after he had finished training with the garrison, but if he were with them at night as Sansa sang them to sleep he remained distant. He would kiss their pups goodnight and then stand in the doorway, only to slip away before she finished her song. She knew that he returned to the great hall to talk with new soldiers, or join men on the watch or on patrols, or retire to the maester’s library to read his scrolls about horse breeding.

Sansa spent her evenings by her hearth, mending and humming songs of her childhood to herself. Every morning she counted the days left until there were none left to count. That morning she went straight to the godswood to pray for her lost family, he husband and children, all the people of the castle, the winter town and the North.

“We whom you have allowed to survive would pray that our labours produce a bountiful harvest, that our victories ensure that peace reign over our lands, and that all who dwell in the North have health and happiness and prosperity.”

They ate alone at the evening meal. Rickon wished to eat at a table with his younger friends this night. The Blackfish had left with a patrol to ride to the lands in the east. Once the seat of the Dreadfort, it had no castle now nor an overlord in residence and so Sandor sent soldiers to regularly check on the welfare of those commons living on what were now his lands. Unlike the winter town, few were flocking to live in the shadow of a ruin.

“Should never have accepted the buggering place,” Sandor grumbled as he frequently did whenever his lordship and ownership of the once-Bolton lands was discussed. “A bloody weight on my shoulders; haven’t I enough to deal with?”

“Yes, Sandor, but-“

“The commons won’t return until there is a castle and overlord; and there aren’t enough commons there now to tax to rebuild…as if I could bloody tax them. They’re starving from war and winter, and they won’t much like having to pay what little they have to an upjumped Westerman.”

“Mayhaps there would be wildlings willing to settle there,” Sansa suggested.

“Seven hells, little bird: send wildlings where there is no standing army? What if fighting breaks out between them and the commons? Not all Northerners accept the Free Folk, you know that, girl!’

He hunched over his broth angrily, stirring but not eating. Sansa put her hand on his.

“We will think of something, my love,” she spoke softly. “There is time before our son inherits. I know you do not wish to live there, nor do I. But if you feel that we must…you know I will go anywhere to be with you.”

He gave her a sour look. “You would leave your father’s castle? To live where, girl: in a log and timber home like the commons in the winter town?”

Sansa smiled secretly. “If we must, or mayhaps a cottage…like the one we once stayed in, Sandor.”

He stopped stirring his broth and sighed impatiently. “Still a romantic little bird…”

“Were you not happy there, Sandor?” she prompted him

“Aye; a pretty respite from the real world. No war, no price on our heads, no duties and no one else. But it couldn’t stay that way, could it, girl? We had to live in the real world,” he rasped.

“Our cottage can be in the real world, Sandor; I have been happy in the real world with you as much as in our cottage.”

“We’ll stay in Winterfell,” he mumbled. He fiddled with his spoon and spoke without looking up at her. “You want me to come to you-“

“Yes,” she answered unhesitatingly. “Oh, yes, my love. Just to sleep next to you again would be wonderful. We can wait longer for the rest if you would feel more…more…”

“Did my talk of plowing you like a draught horse finally give you reason to regret wanting me in your bed, little bird?”

Sansa blinked at him, uncertain how to answer properly. Hesitation might make him believe she was uncertain. However, a reply of _no; please plow me, husband_ seemed terribly unladylike, and certain to provoke his unending scornful laughter.

“I have no regrets about wanting you, Sandor,” she replied as she looked into his eyes. “I never could.”

Sandor’s mouth twitched before he answered. “Thank you, little bird,” he said humbly.

As Sansa sang the children to sleep, Sandor watched for a moment before gathering up his scant belongings to move back into their chambers. By the time he had done, Sansa’s maid was leaving and she sat on her wooden stool in her bedgown with her hair loose.

Sandor dropped his spare boots beneath his bench. “That’s the last of it,” he observed.

Sansa stood before him. “Welcome home, my love.”

“Come here, girl,” he ordered hoarsely.

Sanse smiled as he moved towards him but the soft hands that she lifted to his shoulders trembled.

“You’re shaking,” he noticed.

“Yes…forgive me, Sandor; but it’s…it’s like we are beginning again,” she tried to explain. “And I do love you so very much,” her soft voice had trailed to a whisper.

Sandor cleared his throat. “I’m still no knight from a song to spout pretty words-“

“I don’t want any knight from a song, Sandor; I want _you_. You have always shown me that you love me,” she put a slender fingertip to his lips. “You needn’t speak at all, if you don’t wish to.”

He kissed her fingertip now and put a hand on her cheek. “If I did, it would be to tell you that you are everything sweet, and gentle, and good. That you are the most beautiful girl…woman this old dog has ever had chance to see,” his voice caught now.

Sansa smiled gently and felt her face turn pink. “That was lovely, Sandor,” she whispered, “but…will you still show me?” She raised herself up on tiptoe to give him a gentle kiss but Sandor pulled her to him to kiss her deeply. He sank his hands into her hair as Sansa untied her robe and let it slip from her shoulders. Sandor kissed her brow, her eyes, her face and her neck until she let her bedgown drop to the floor at her feet. She felt his hands on her skin, callused and warm, as he caressed gently down her back to rest at her waist.

“Little bird…” he rasped gently.

“Please, Sandor, I would look at you as well.”

She reached to help pull his tunic over his head; and with swift movements Sandor rid himself of breeches and boots. The soft firelight in the dim room showed his heavily muscled body in high-relief; every scar and sinew showed how powerful he was and yet Sansa yearned for his gentleness as well as his strength. When he turned to her, she laid her hand over his heart and reached to kiss his neck and his shoulders. She ran her fingertips through the dark hair on his chest and lightly down to his belly, making him draw in his breath. Suddenly, she shivered.

“You’re cold, little bird,” he murmured.

“You’ll soon warm me…my love,” she teased mildly.

Sandor chuckled quietly. “Aye, little bird; I’ll keep you safe _and_ warm.” He bent now to pick her up in his arms and lay her on the fur-covered bed. “Now it’s my turn to have a song from you.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

Spring had returned to the North. The rivers and streams ran icy cold as the snow melted and ran off, and what snows remained lay mostly beneath trees and in the shaded corners of the castle yard. The grey stone blocks of the walls and turrets stood exposed: their damage and the advancing repairs clearly visible for all to see. Buds appeared on branches of trees and yellowy grass showed in wide fields and on plains that would soon be lush and verdant for grazing. Already trees in the wolfswood were being felled to build fences for pens and paddocks, and logs were being hollowed out for troughs. Soon the animals would be let out to pasture, many with their newborn young. Huntsmen were able to range further afield and there was more meat on the tables in the great hall. The air was fresh and sometimes fragrant with Northern wildflowers and Sansa took a deep full breath as she stepped from the castle into the brisk but sun-filled world of Winterfell. She tilted her head back to feel the warmth on her face when a sweet cry came from across the yard.

“Mama, look! I wide wit’ Papa!”

She saw that Stranger was trotting around the yard with Catya seated in front of Sandor in the saddle, He held his daughter tightly around her middle as she bounced in rhythm to the horse’s gait while his other hand held his courser’s reins.

“I’m watching, my darling girl. Hold on tight to your Papa,” she admonished with a smile.

They continued to circle the yard and Sansa could hear Sandor giving Catya instructions though of course she was still too small to control any horse much less a strong mount like Stranger. But she was at ease in the saddle and Sansa was reminded of Arya and how accomplished a rider she had become at a young age, and how some had compared her to her aunt Lyanna. Her smile faltered somewhat and she prayed her daughter would never know the trials and losses that her aunt and great-aunt had suffered.

“Ready?” she heard Sandor ask before he spurred Stranger to a canter. The dark horse picked up his pace and her daughter laughed with carefree happiness as her own dark hair blew in the wind and her cheeks flushed red and she cheered on her father’s warhorse.

“Yea, Stwainger!”

Sandor finally slowed his courser and walked him over to a groomsman who reached up to take Catya from him and set her on the ground. As Sandor dismounted, their daughter ran excitedly to Sansa.

“I wide horsy, Mama; I wide wit’ Papa Dog!” she squeaked. She bounced on her toes and her eyes sparkled and Sansa felt as though it were already high summer in her heart. She was smiling radiantly when Sandor approached her and her love for her husband and daughter was plain in her face. Sandor’s mouth twitched into a half-smile.

“My lady,” he murmured.

“My lord,” she replied softly. “You are too good to take the time to ride with Catya: she enjoys it so very much.”

“T’ank you, Papa Dog!” Catya called up to him.

“It was my pleasure, girl,” he rasped. “You’re getting better every time I take you on Stranger: you’ll be a fine rider someday.”

“Sandor?” Sansa looked past him now to where the young soldier Kit was leading his horse from the stable toward a wagon laden with supplies.

“Aye, little bird: we’ll see them off,” he assured her. He bent to pick up Catya and held her straddled over his hip. “Come, girl: you can say goodbye to your friend Thomas.”

“No!” Catya pouted. “ _No_ g’bye.”

‘Yes,” he informed her sternly before Sansa could correct her. “You are a lady and a lady remembers her courtesies. You will say a proper goodbye to your friend, as your Mama and I will say to our friends…even though we are sad to see them leave.”

“Listen to your Papa, my Catya,” Sansa admonished softly.

Catya looked to her and back to her father and nodded obediently, though not happily.

“Good girl,” Sandor rasped close to her ear.

“M’lord,” Kit came over once he had hitched his horse to the wagon. “I thanks ye fer seein’ us off; I- I thanks ye and Lady Clegane fer everthings ye’ve done fer us.” He was a handsome lad and a hard worker with an easy smile; and Sansa knew how much Sandor wished he would have stayed with the garrison. Kit wrung his cap in his hands, overwhelmed to be leaving Winterfell with his young family to take the croft he had long dreamed of working.

“We are so very happy for you, Kit; though we are very sad to be losing you…and Rose,” she added as her maid stepped forward now with her baby boy in her arms and holding her eldest son by his hand. “We are grateful for, well, for everything you have done for us in Winterfell, and for helping to rebuild the North.” Sansa choked up suddenly. Kit had once saved her life on the walls of the castle from a young Frey boy who had come to Winterfell disguised as a commoner; and he remembered and respected her father Lord Eddard Stark.

Kit blushed. “Thank’e, m’lady. I canna believe this day’s come,” he stammered.

Sansa put her hand on his arm. “You will do well, Kit, for yourself and your family and for the North. My father had faith in you, as do I. May the old gods watch over and protect you; I know I shall pray for you all in the godswood.”

She turned to Rose who was tearing up now. “M’lady, I- I’ll not forgets all I learn’d here in the castle…ye’ve been evrythin’ kind t’us and we’ll never be forgettin’.”

Sansa embraced her warmly. “Keep well, Rose,” she murmured, “always love them as I know you do.” She felt the girl nod over her shoulder. “We are very fortunate women, you and I.”

“Tom, have ye’ sumthin’ t’say te Lady Catya, then?” Kit prompted his stepson. The boy looked up at him and nodded. “B’bye, Caty,” he mumbled.

“’Bye, Tommy,” Catya blubbed with a pout and turned her head to Sandor’s shoulder.

“There now,” Sandor comforted them both, “You’ll see each other again someday. You’ll come to see us in Winterfell,” he reassured little Thomas. “You will always be welcome here; and if you decide to be a soldier one day, you can join the garrison under my command.”

Thomas smiled timidly. He wanted to be a soldier like his stepfather but Sansa wondered if he might one day prefer to stay and work the land with him.

She and Sandor stood at the gate and waved to the young couple as they rode out to begin their new life.

“Are they the last to go then, little bird?”

Sansa nodded. “Everyone else from the castle who would leave have left already, Sandor; there are more commons in the Winter town now as well and most are intending to stay. Any more crofters and mountain folks who would winter there in the future will needs build new homes as many of the old, unclaimed homes are now occupied by tradesmen and their families.”

She smiled, thinking of how the North was rising stronger again, and Sandor smiled with her.

“It’s your doing, little bird-“

“Nonsense,” she blushed. “It was you and great-uncle Brynden and the Greatjon and …oh so many others, Sandor. Queen Daenerys and her dragons, and Lord Stannis and his hand who found Rickon and brought him home. Lord Reed and Lady Mormont and Jon at the Wall…” she trailed off now, thinking of Jon and Bran and Arya: all so far from her and Rickon and Winterfell.

“I know you miss your family, girl; but we’ve our own family as well now,” he meant to comfort her.

Sansa nodded absently but still remembered to smile for him.

“It’s only another five moons, little bird-“

“Five moons, a fortnight and one day,” she recited without thinking before she ducked her head.

“Aye,” Sandor agreed, “five moons, a fortnight and one day and we can have more family.”

Catya looked from one to the other uncomprehendingly. Sansa laughed at her irritated confusion, thinking how much she sometimes reminded her of Arya.

“Are you hungry after riding, my sweetling? Shall we join Papa in the hall and eat with the soldiers?” she teased.

“Eat wit’ Nurse an’ Ned an’ Wobb,” Catya corrected her.

“Very well, kiss your Papa then and we’ll go find Nurse and your brothers.”

“Mama kiss Papa too!” her daughter cried.

“Do I _have_ to?” Sandor rasped playfully.

“Yes!” Catya exclaimed.

Sansa stretched up on tiptoe to kiss Sandor before taking Catya in her arms and walking back into the castle. Catya stared back at her father.

“Papa watch us, Mama.”

Sansa looked over her shoulder to see Sandor watching them walk away. She smiled to herself.

“Yes, Papa watches over us,” she told her daughter happily.

……

Sansa lay under the furs with Sandor in an embrace of tangled limbs and soft kisses. Every time he pressed his lips to her face and neck she clung more tightly to him until he began to pull away.

“No,” she whispered.

“I’m on second watch, little bird; I told you before,” he murmured.

“Mm,” she relented, “I should have let you sleep.”

He looked fiercely at her in the dimness of their chamber. “Did I seem sleepy to you, girl?”

She smiled gently at him. “No. Never was a man more awake and alive, my love…but it’s so warm here with you next to me.”

Sandor pushed her auburn hair back from her forehead. “Happy, girl?” he rasped flatly.

She sighed contentedly. “I am splendidly happy.”

“Happy that your she-wolf of a sister is coming to visit?” he growled.

“Oh, Sandor…please be happy for me, and for Rickon. We are fortunate that Daenerys will allow her to visit us.”

A raven had come before their evening meal, informing the castle that Arya Stark would be permitted to journey to Winterfell, provided that she returned to court in due time. Despite the niceties exchanged between Winterfell and the Iron Throne, Arya was in effect a hostage meant to ensure the Stark loyalty. And so as to ensure her return, the queen was sending her North with an honour guard.

“At least she’s not sending her with one of her bloody dragons,” he rasped. “The she-wolf had better not try to stall going back. I won’t buggering be defending her from one of those fire-breathing creatures from the seven hells.”

“Those fiery creatures helped to defeat the Others, my love. For that, I will always have then in my prayers of thankfulness. And of course Arya won’t resist returning to court,” Sansa replied, “I won’t let her,” she added when she saw the hard look Sandor gave her. Sandor knew Arya’s willfulness and her stubbornness too well. For two people so very much alike, Sansa mused, they were also completely at odds. Still, she hoped they could learn to accept each other. She loved them both and wanted nothing to spoil her happy excitement.

“Well, I’m off,” he countered as he swung off the bed and began pulling his clothes on: breeches, two wool tunics, boots…”and you won’t be needing an honour guard to bring me back,” he jeered.

“Are _you_ happy, Sandor?” she asked him now.

“That the she-wolf is coming?”

She smiled patiently. “Happy with _me_ ,” she wanted to know.

He looked at her as he strapped on his swordbelt. “Aye, little bird; but I’ve work to do now.”

There was a discreet knock at their chamber door. “Aye, I’m up. Wait there,” Sandor called.

“Aye, m’lord,” a soldier answered.

Sandor turned back to Sansa and pulled the furs up to her neck and tucked them in close to her. “There,” he rasped resolutely, “you’ll be warm and comfortable without me. Spare a thought for me up on the walls before you start dreaming, little bird,” he lamented.

“I will dream of naught but you; and in all my dreams I will be as naked as my name day,” she teased.

Sandor chuckled. “I’ll have that thought to warm me at least.” He bent to kiss her brow.

After he left their chamber, Sansa curled up and dreamily traced her fingertips across the soft furs, pondering how perfectly well everything in her life seemed to be unfolding. _Finally,_ she thought. Slowly she drifted off to sleep.

She woke later with a jarring start to find herself alone in the dark and cold and a wave of fear swept over her so that she could scarcely draw breath.

“Sandor?’ she called. “Sandor!”

She tripped and stumbled from the bed, panting in terror.

_My husband, my family…where am I? It’s so cold and dark. Sandor, where are you?_

“Sandor?” she sobbed now.

Whirling in the darkness, she stubbed her foot on her little wooden stool and fell to her hands and knees. There was a faint light coming from the edges of the shutters and so she flung herself at them and fumbled with the latch. Light and fresh air poured in and Sansa filled her lungs and steadied herself against the windowsill.

_Winterfell. Home. I’m home._

“Sandor,” she remembered.

Turning back to the bed, she snatched up her robe and hurried to his side of their chamber and to his bench where his clothes were piled and his boots were tucked underneath. Turning, she ducked to look under the bed where a locked wooden box holding his few valuables was hidden.

“What have you lost, girl?”

She had not heard him come in; her blood had been pounding too hard in her ears.

She stared at him momentarily before rising and launching herself at him. She closed her arms around his neck and kissed his face over and over. “Nothing,” she told him between kisses. “I’ve lost nothing. You’re still her with me; you’re still _mine_. Oh, Sandor, please don’t leave me again; I couldn’t bear it!”

He laughed incredulously. “I was only on watch, girl. Seven hells, but you’re cold. Damn me,” he swore, “I forgot to stoke up the fire before I left. Bloody thing burned out. Forgive me, little bird.” He rubbed her arms and back through her robe to warm her.

“I mean don’t ever leave me again…like you did last year, Sandor: please! I don’t want to be without you. I- I-“ she stammered tearfully.

“Sh-sh-sh…hush, little bird: I’m still here.” He cupped her face in his hand and looked at her carefully. She was pale and her hair was loosened from its braid and she was looking at him with such intense love and fear that he sucked in his breath.

“You won’t lose me, little bird; not if I can help it. I promise,” he swore solemnly.

She nodded and ducked her head to wipe the tears that had filled her eyes; then she pressed her face into his tunic and wrapped her arms around his torso and clung desperately to him.

“Forgive me, Sandor, it was too much…is it possible to be _too_ happy? It is frightening to be overcome all at once and realize how very much one can stand to lose when one is so happy,” she whispered as she held him tightly.

 _Is this how he feels? So happy that it must be a mistake; that it cannot possibly last? I have my home, my family, my love…and it is Spring and the North is rising again. How can the gods give me so much when they had once taken it all away? Mayhaps they will again._ She sobbed once and gripped Sandor’s tunic in her fists.

“Aye, it’s too much sometimes, isn’t it, little bird? Hush now…you’re safe.”

He held her and stroked her back until she subsided.

“I- I love you, Sandor,” she ventured.

After a pause he answered. “I love you, little bird.”

She sniffled but smiled. “Thank you, Sandor.”

Sandor showed his love with his actions, but sometimes, she still needed to hear the words.


	5. Chapter 5

Winterfell and the winter town seemed to be constantly bustling with activity. Since few people had any coin after the wars, most business was conducted by barter or, at the castle, for shelter and protection. There were carpenters in Winterfell repairing the chambers and making new furnishings to replace those lost and burned. More chairs and benches were added to the great hall and the solar; and new shelves were built next to the hearth near Sansa’s desk and in the maester’s study. Big, sturdy cupboards stood in alcoves where once great, dark, carved armoires held linens and furs for the chambers of the Stark family. Though the new furnishings were more rustic and still sparse compared to those she remembered as a child, Sansa still felt pride that Winterfell was rising from the ashes of near-ruin and taking on the semblance of a real castle again.

She and Sandor now had a sturdy table and chairs for their chambers as well as a pair of wooden chests crudely carved with the Clegane dog sigil to hold their clothing and belongings. Catya sometimes liked to climb in and hide and had begged for one of her very own. Sandor raspingly replied that if she were good, she might have a surprise for her name day. The little chest with a puppy carved on it was hidden in an empty room.

Sansa had also been surprised and grateful that Arya had sent gifts ahead of her visit: mostly lengths of cloth from the capitol but other necessities such as tin pitchers and cups, candles and candleticks and oil lamps, and a leather-covered box of embroidery threads, needles, scissors and thimble. Sansa set immediately to sewing new clothes for her growing children and even to stitching Sandor a cushion for his great armchair, for their had been a length of gold velvet in the bolts, and she finished it complete with his embroidered House sigil of three black dogs. His mouth twitched when he saw it, a ghost of a smile, and he nodded his acknowledgement and thanked her curtly but he always righted it in his seat before he lowered himself into his chair. _Deeds, not words_ , Sansa reminded herself.

Still, their prized new possession was their bathtub, built by a young cooper who had settled in the winter town. He had fashioned it large and deep so that Sandor could sit, even though his knees poked out of the water and his elbows hung over the sides. Sansa was so pleased that she commissioned several more for Winterfell so that servants and soldiers could also bathe without using just buckets and rags. Many soldiers still preferred the hot springs in the godswood though, heedless of the stink of sulphur that followed in their wake after they emerged.

Fortunately the children had a smaller tin tub and Sansa often helped the nurse when the children were bathed, laughing at their yelps of protest and delighting in their fresh-scrubbed faces and sweet smelling skin as they were thoroughly dried with linen towels and bundled into woolen sleeping gowns and nestled under furs for sleep. _My sweet, sweet babes,_ she mused as she walked to her own chamber, _soon I will have more…_

Suddenly, a pair of strong arms grasped from behind and held her tightly. She gasped in surprise.

“What did I tell you about walking away from me, little bird,” Sandor rasped close to her ear as he pushed his face into her loose hair and neck.

“Mm, I‘ve forgotten” she murmured as she pressed he body back into his.

“Then you need reminding; come lift your skirts for me, girl, and I’ll plow you so that you’ll not be forgetting again.”

Sansa giggled and broke free of his embrace and ran lightly towards their chamber where Sandor caught her easily. He slammed the door and lowered the bar and they did not join the others for supper in the great hall. Sansa later found a plate of bread and a covered bowl of stew left on a tray outside their chamber, and so they sat together at their table and ate wrapped in their robes and furs from the bed.

In the middle of the night, there was a knock at their door.

Sandor grumbled. “What is it?”

“It’s time, m’lord,” the voice of the old mountain man came through the wooden door.

Sandor sat up immediately. “We’ll be right behind you,” he called to him.

Sansa sat up sleepily. “Sandor? Where-“

“Get dressed warm, little bird. We’re going to the stables,” he told her as he pulled his breeches on and stepped into his boots.

“But why?” She pulled the furs up around her instead.

“You’ll see. Get up, I’ll help you dress. Hurry now.”

Once they arrived at the stables, Sansa saw Osha and her husband in front of a large stall. Osha held aloft an oil lamp and nodded to her.

“Jes’in time, m’lady. It be startin’.”

Sansa looked into the stall to see a heavily pregnant mare turning in circles, with water pouring from her hindquarters. She turned to Sandor questioningly.

“Aye, little bird: she having Stranger’s foal, his first. We’ve been breeding him with the best mares since the first signs of Spring.”

 _I know_ , Sansa almost replied but she feigned delighted surprise instead, realizing that had been his intention all along.

Sandor kept his usual grim expression but Sansa saw that he was watching avidly, nervous and excited about the fruition of his pet project. She took his hand and smiled encouragingly.

After a time, they could see a clear white sac begin to emerge from under the mare’s tail. Sansa peered hard, unsure of what she was seeing.

“Those be hooves ye’see, m’lady,” the mountain man told her knowledgeably. “They comes out feet first, then the head. She’ll go down soon, you’ll see.”

But the mare did not go down, and Sansa began to worry.

“It’ll happen when it happens, m’lady,” he drawled easily, “though I s’pect ye knows as much yerself; beggin’ yer pardon if that be too forward, m’lady.”

Sansa’s mouth tucked into a small smile. “Yes, I do know as much,” she replied. She felt Sandor squeeze her hand now, and was comforted.

In time, the mare did lie down in the fresh straw and the sac emerging seemed to show dark hooves and long dark legs until finally a head emerged.

“Oh, Sandor,” Sansa gasped excitedly. “There it is!”

 _Spring is truly here and new life is beginning,_ she thought hopefully.

“We’ll be helpin’ er frum heres on,” the man said as he hobbled into the stall. He kneeled on one knee and leaned to grasp the front hooves and pulled the foal from its mother and tore open the birthing sac, exposing the small but long dark face of the newborn animal.

“A filly, m’lord,” the man called over his shoulder to Sandor a moment later.

Sandor nodded but Sansa exclaimed happily: “A girl: just like we had first, Sandor!”

He turned to look as her oddly, then his mouth twitched into a smile to see her excitement. “I see I was right you’d want to see this, little bird.”

“Oh yes, Sandor,” she smiled up at him, “thank you for this…this gift. It was wonderful to see. Oh, look! She’s beautiful.”

The foal was standing now and taking its first wobbly steps. Though the mare was a chestnut; the filly was as dark as Stranger. _She has her father’s hair_ ,Sansa could not help thinking, remembering now her pleased reaction to baby Catya’s dark hair.

Sandor was thinking of Catya as well. “Might be our filly will want to see her too. Do you think she’ll like her name-day gift, little bird?”

Sansa turned to Sandor and felt her eyes fill with tears of love and happiness.

“The pony is for Catya? Oh Sandor, she will be so happy.” Sansa suspected the wooden chest with the carved puppy would be all but forgotten; still she threw her arms around him impulsively. “You are so good to the children, Sandor. They love you so much; and I know you love them.”

“Aye,” he rasped, almost defensive, “of course I do: they’re our pups, yours and mine.”

Sansa smiled and put her hand on his arm tenderly. She knew he was gruff when he felt emotions because he had once been so unfamiliar with them. _Words are wind; his actions speak of his love._

“Yes,” she agreed simply, “and you are their father…and you are a wonderful father, Sandor.”

He stared at her momentarily and took her hand again. “Let’s get some sleep, little bird,” he rasped.

…….

After Sandor had trained with the garrison in the morning, Sansa brought Catya into the yard and across to the stables. Her daughter smiled excitedly to see her father and ran to him.

“Papa Dog! Wide wit’ Papa Dog?”

Sandor crouched down before her and answered her solemnly. “Not today, my Catya. Today…don’t pout, girl; today I have something to show you. Come with me now.”

He took her small hand in his and walked her slowly to the stall with the mare and her new foal. There he kneeled by her side and pointed to the pony behind its mother’s legs.

“There, do you see it?”

Catya gasped in excitement.

“Horsy! Baby horsy! Look, Papa!”

“Aye, she’s a baby horse, girl: a filly…and she’s yours,” Sandor rasped tenderly.

Catya turned great big saucer eyes to her father and her little mouth fell open in incredulous surprise.

“Horsy for me? Mama, Papa: horsy for _me_!” She threw her little arms around her father’s neck and laughed happily. “Love you, Papa Dog!”

Sansa could see Sandor shut his eyes tightly as he held his daughter to him. Words may be wind but words of love from his very own daughter were more precious than any gold. Sansa knew that his love was fiercer than any rage Sandor had ever felt, and she was overwhelmed with happiness to think she had given him such a gift.

He pulled back now and looked at her. “When you are both bigger, I will teach you to ride her. Would you like that, girl? Good. Thank your mother too now.”

“T’ank you, Mama.”

“Happy name day, my sweetling,” Sansa replied. “What will you name your pony?”

Catya looked to the foal and back to Sansa. “Lay-dee.”

Sandor cleared his throat now. “Well now, Lady-“

“Lady is a fine name for a pony,” Sansa interrupted gently. “She will be a beautiful dark mare someday, and you will be a beautiful and skillful rider because your Papa will teach you.”

“Mama wolf name Lady,” Catya piped.

Sansa smiled tremulously. “Yes. Did your Uncle Rickon tell you that?”

Catya nodded.

“Would the lit’l lady like to feed her pony then?” Osha’s mountain man asked as he joined them in the stables. He had a pail of oats in one hand as he hobbled along on his crutch.

Sandor stood now as Catya turned back to the stall to watch her pony eat.

“I’ll talk to her, little bird,” he began, “We’ll choose another name-“

Sansa shook her head. “No, please, Sandor: let her have the- the name for her pony. She means well by it; and I would not want to have to tell her the terrible truth at such a young age. It could give her nightmares. And she is so happy now, Sandor. I would not take away her happiness and make her fearful.”

Sandor brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “You’re generous and gentle-hearted, little bird. The pups are lucky to have you for their mother.”

Sansa looked down briefly. “Thank you, Sandor,” she whispered. “I know now some part of me will always be fearful: for our family, for you, for the North…but I will not let that fear ruin what happiness we have, especially for our children.”

He put his hand under her chin and raised her face to look at her.

“Our time will come, little bird: there’ll be more pups,” he told her haltingly, and Sansa knew he still had his fears as well. Eventually the master would deem her strong enough to stop taking the moon tea and she could once again be with child; and Sandor would have to worry that she have another difficult birth or that he could lose her.

She understood his concerns but she wanted more children, no matter the cost. So she simply nodded obediently and made herself smile. _Our time,_ she thought, _in three moon and five days._

“Come girl,” he called to Catya. “Your pony will be here again tomorrow; soon they will have finished the fences and you can watch her run in the pasture.”

Catya ran on little legs to catch up with them.

“Ned an’ Wobb have horsy?”

“Not yet, girl; the next one’s your mother’s,” Sandor told her.

Sansa looked surprised, “Me? But Sandor, my gelding-“

“-will not live forever, little bird. The trip North and winter and all the battles were rough on our mounts. Even Stranger’s not what he was,” he rasped harshly and Sansa knew he was covering his hurt to know that his prize warhorse would not always be his; but these were the losses they needs learn to accept. “I’ll keep putting him to stud though, to breed more horses. He’s good stock…and he don’t mind,” he laughed now, his harsh laugh that reminded Sansa of steel on stone.

Sansa took his arm and leaned her head against his shoulder as they walked. Catya ran past them and into the castle, telling everyone she saw that her Papa had given her a horse.

 _Three moons and five days,_ she thought again as she felt Sandor’s strength and warmth so close to her. She turned to gaze lovingly up at him but he was watching Catya and smiling his twisted, half-smile. She put her head back against him and ran her hand down his arm. _Three moon, five days…and tonight._

FINIS

 


End file.
